


Til the sun goes down

by lady_mab



Category: Friends at the Table (Podcast)
Genre: Dark!ephrim, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-04-20
Updated: 2019-04-20
Packaged: 2020-01-22 21:15:52
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,168
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/18535630
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/lady_mab/pseuds/lady_mab
Summary: Throndir's expression shifts from obedient patience beneath the attention to a sharp smirk, exposing his sharp teeth. "Does this displease you, My Lord?"Ephrim frowns and leans back, using his foot to tilt Throndir's face away. "Is that all you have to report?""That is all for now.""Very well." Ephrim extends his hand, letting the tips of his fingers tease over Throndir's lips before the other man reaches up to take his hand. "You may go."





	Til the sun goes down

Ephrim’s footsteps ring like distant thunder as he strides down the hall. The only light comes from the torches that Marigold and Highwater carry on either side of him. The flickering flames reflect golden off the metal clasps of his cloak.

It’s barely enough to illuminate the depths of his eyes, but it highlights his cheekbones--casting his face into shadows as they walk.

He reaches the door to his throne room first, but Highwater stops him with a touch on his wrist.

She passes her torch to Marigold, and throws open the doors for him. Her hand goes immediately to her weapon as she steps inside.

“An intruder, My Lord,” Highwater says, her voice barely audible

Ephrim stills, but it’s only a moment before he recognizes the weight of the aura. “Stand down, ladies.” He speaks loud enough that his words echo through the cavernous hall, and he lifts a hand in a casual gesture.

Flames spring to life in the sconces along the walls, a deep, pulsing purple and black. The shadows in the room jump one way, then the next, as vines and flowers claw their way up the twisting metal--attempting  to snuff out the fire.

But the color settles to a warm orange, and the vines catch. They burn away in seconds.

Satisfied, Ephrim pushes past his retainers as the sconces illuminate with his approach. Down and down through the hall, purple-black infested with vines desperate to grow dulling to orange-yellow-white.

Down and down until the shape of his throne appears in the gloom, and he can make out the shape of man languishing in it.

“My huntsman, home at last,” Ephrim muses, voice low and almost fond. “You may leave us, Highwater. Marigold.”

“My Lord—” Highwater starts as Marigold growls behind him.

“He’s as loyal to me as you two are.” The thin hint of a smile flickers, but doesn’t slip. “Now: Don’t make me repeat myself.”

The two retainers avert their gaze as they drop into hurried bows. “Of course, my lord,” they chorus.

Each once again armed with a torch, and shooting wary glares in the direction of the figure in the throne, they leave.

Ephrim waits until the door slams shut behind them before he begins his casual approach to his throne.

Throndir watches him with feigned disinterest, one foot tapping into the space where his foot dangles over the arm of the chair. He spins his gun in idle circles, fingers running the length of the weapon with practised ease. 

He ascends the stairs slowly, until he stands on the top level. "You are in my seat." 

"Oh?" Throndir's dark eyes catch the firelight as he glances up at Ephrim. He archs his back off the throne in a full-body stretch. "Am I?" 

Ephrim reaches out, gloved fingers raking back through Throndir's hair until he locks his fingers around the gentle curls. He forces Throndir's head back, and growls, "Get up." 

Moving with deliberate slowness, Throndir swings his legs back to the floor. He pushes himself to his full height and slips the gun back into its holster. Heat rolls off him in waves as Ephrim's grip slips from his hair--their proximity forcing Ephrim's hand to trace over Throndir's shoulder and grazing down the lines of his coat until he swivels away. "Your throne, My Lord." 

Ephrim unfastens his cloak and drapes it across the throne and drops into it with a gentle sigh. He watches Throndir take a knee before him. "Tell me, what news do you brig?" 

Throdir gives a brief overview of the movemet of Ordennan forces through the western forests, an entirely cursory report that undoubtedly already is in the hands of Ephrim's retainers. 

Still, sitting with his cheek propped up against his fist, Ephrim manipulates the mental map of the area. Pieces move to and for with Throndir's words, setting themselves up for the inevitable. 

Ephrim hums in thought, crossing one leg over the other. "No one yet makes a move, though?" 

"They know better than to approach you, My Lord."

"Flattery does not become you, Huntsman." 

A smirk cuts across Throndir's mouth despite how he tries to hide it. "I'm only speaking the truth." 

There's an audible pause, and Ephrim opens his eyes and lifts an eyebrow. "And?"

Throndir keeps his head bowed. "There is one more thing." 

"That you did not put in your report?" 

He shakes his head. "The Spring is encroaching, growing faster than the last time I recorded it." 

Ephrim goes still for only a moment. He catches the toe of his boot beneath Throndir's chin, forcing him to look up. Several responses flick through his mind, and he dismisses each one of them as he takes the opportunity to study Throndir's face. 

Throndir's expression shifts from obedient patience beneath the attention to a sharp smirk, exposing his sharp teeth. "Does this displease you, My Lord?" 

Ephrim frowns and leans back, using his foot to tilt Throndir's face away. "Is that all you have to report?" 

"That is all for now." 

"Very well." Ephrim extends his hand, letting the tips of his fingers tease over Throndir's lips before the other man reaches up to take his hand. "You may go." 

Throndir brushes a kiss over the singet ring, his fingers sliding up the underside of Ephrim's wrist to push the sleeve of his coat out of the way. He turns Ephrim's hand over gently and places a lingering kiss to the pale skin beneath. A second, then a third, as he lifts his eyes to meet Ephrim's. 

It's the only warning he gets before Throndir's fangs sink into the tender flesh. 

Ephrim gasps, his back arching off his throne at the sudden pain. But Throndir has a secure grip on his arm, ensuring that he won't try to yank it away and injure himself further. 

He curls in over his arm, breathing strained and uneven. His free hand moves to brush the strands of Throndir's hair from the high arch of his cheek and the wicked curve of his lips. 

Eventually, Throndir pulls back with a satisfied sigh. He runs his tongue over his teeth, grinning as Ephrim demurely pulls out a kerchief to dab at his wrist. "Thank you for your continued patronage as always, My Lord." 

Ephrim know he shouldn't respond, unable to keep frustration from his tone. It doesn't stop him from saying, "Leave me." 

Throndir rises back to his feet and ducks into an elaborate bow. "I am yours to command." He turns, descending the stone stairs with a confident swagger. 

Ephrim waits until he hears the sound of the hall door opening before he calls out, "Tonight, Huntsman." 

There's a pause, and even tough he doesn't look up, he can hear the pleasure in Throndir's voice. "The usual hour?" 

"Of course." 

"I will call upon you later, then." 

Ephrim ties off the kerchief around his wrist and pulls the sleeve of his coat back down over it as the door swings shut.

**Author's Note:**

> I almost did mistype the title with "son". Hey come yell at me on Twitter about ephrondir @littleladymab


End file.
